


Steganography

by Saathi1013



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), Sherlock (TV), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Crossover, F/F, Femslash, Grief/Mourning, POV Character of Color, POV Female Character, POV Third Person Limited, Stealth Crossover
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-01
Updated: 2013-06-01
Packaged: 2017-12-13 16:48:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,424
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/826551
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saathi1013/pseuds/Saathi1013
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Eve mourns, rejects Bond's advances, makes a friend, loses a bet, and spends a sleepless night in an old bank.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Steganography

**Author's Note:**

> Eternal thanks to my delightful betas, Dauphkantus and Wiggleofjudas.
> 
> The Bond series has a... fluid sense of its placement in time, even at its best, so please forgive the bit of historical dilation when M (Dench's M)'s biography is discussed. I have a complicated headcanon for her character.

The funeral is precisely as grim as it one might expect it to be, an overcast sky hanging low over the proceedings, occasionally releasing a sullen spatter of fat raindrops before stopping again.  The rain is regular enough to make Eve envy those with hats, but not so constant that her umbrella will be of any use.

M would have sniffed at the scene, declared the weather to be ‘melodramatic’, and ushered everyone indoors for cocktails until the skies decided to cooperate.  But of course, if M were here, no one else would be here, sporadic drips of cold water rolling down the backs of their collars.

Eve tunes out the minister, especially when he says M’s name.  M was her name, as far as Eve’s concerned.  She earned the title, and that’s how Eve will choose to remember her, regardless of the extra letters gracefully chiseled on the stone everyone has clustered ‘round.  This, she thinks, M _would_ approve of, even if she’d add a sympathetic-but-stern rider to respect her replacement the same.

Ah, and there’s M’s son stepping up to say a few words.  Such a shame the other’s playing dead at the moment.  Mycroft looks strained behind his poise, like giving two eulogies in a year is more of a burden than all his work for the Crown.

Eve scans the outskirts of the cemetery in case Sherlock is lurking somewhere.  There’s no sign of him, though one woman stands out in the crowd.  Everything about her looks like she’s been torn from a forties film, down to the net veil angled across her cheekbones and the wide eyes blinking back tears. If Bond were here, he’d have a target on her in a heartbeat.

Then again, active field agents aren’t allowed at the public service.  Perhaps at the wake, Eve will get to watch Bond make a valiant attempt at conquest.  Somehow, she gets the impression that he won’t have much luck, which will prove highly entertaining.

Eve tries to place her, fails, and sighs to herself in irritation.  In light of recent events, personnel and aliases and allegiances have shifted enough that keeping track of it all taxes even her not-inconsiderable memory.  She makes a note to give more attention to recent updates, because this simply won’t do.

Mycroft lays a small cluster of greenery on the casket: a single dried white rose, surrounded by rue and nasturtium.  Eve feels her chest grow tight and her sinuses sting, just for a moment, and then it passes.

***

Bond makes a beeline for Eve at the wake, slumping against the wall beside her with a pose made of equal parts feigned indifference, genuine exhaustion, and grief.  She’ll give him three minutes of this self-indulgent nonsense, then send him loose with a pointed reminder of what M would think of his behaviour.

He gives her a generous glass of red wine, though, so she ups it to five minutes, even as she eyes the high water mark of his own glass and gauges his equilibrium.

“The service was lovely,” she informs him.

“From what I saw,” he agrees.  Eve blinks.  “Through a scope,” he explains; “I insisted on taking watch.”

A task far beneath his pay grade, but she suspects he’s not the only one who’d _insisted_.  She’ll check the duty logs later.

“Mm,” she says noncommittally, taking a sip of the wine.  “Have you paid your condolences yet?”  She indicates Mycroft with a slight lift of her chin.

“Yes,” he says into his own glass.  “What kind of heathen d’you take me for?”  She arches an eyebrow, and that gets a grin out of him, despite himself.  “Fair enough,” he concedes.  “He’s a bit of a —”

“Language,” Eve chides, because M isn’t here to do it.  “He might be our boss someday.”

“Nepotism,” he grumbles.  She swats him on the arm.  They both know the man’s qualifications, and they know he’d earned every one of them.  M may have groomed her son, but both Eve and Bond know that M’s close scrutiny lent itself to higher standards, not lower ones.

“If he’d been given the job immediately, sure.  But give him some years, and they’ll say he’s carrying her torch, not _inheriting_ the office,” Eve says.

“Mm,” Bond says, grudging agreement.

His five minutes are up, and he’s depressing her more than she can stand.  “Go on,” Eve says, nudging his elbow with her own.  “Find a pretty young thing to distract you.  I don’t want to talk to you ‘til we’re in the office tomorrow.”

He glances up at her through his sandy eyelashes, and she fights a heated shiver borne of memory.  “Good,” he says.  “I wasn’t hoping to _talk_.”

But Eve doesn’t want to bear the heavy burden of his grief, not with her own lingering so near, held at bay through sheer force of will.  Any reminders, any more weight on her shoulders, and she’ll bend.  Not break, certainly, but bend in ways she’ll regret later.

She gives him a quiet look.  “Neither of us is what the other needs right now,” she says gently.  “But I’ll take a rain check.”  She leans in to press a kiss to his lined cheek, and walks away with his cologne still in her nostrils.

***

Eve checks in with Mallory —  _the new M,_ she reminds herself sternly — murmuring tidbits of information she’s picked up while circulating through the crowd.

“Stop _working_ ,” he chides, “... but update the appropriate dossiers by the end of the week.”

She goes to the bar and bumps into the woman she spotted at the funeral.  Up close, she’s recognizable.  “Anthea,” Eve says, using the current alias out of respect.

“Eve,” Anthea replies.

“You’ve changed your hair,” Eve observes.  It’s lighter, more auburn, and chopped down to her shoulders with a different curl to her bangs.

“Needs must, on occasion,” Anthea says with a shrug.  Eve understands the motive but doesn't share the ease; there are places in the world where Anthea would stand out, but in the circles they move in, here in London, a henna rinse, a trim, and some blue contacts make Anthea a whole new person.  

“How’s he holding up?” Eve asks, referring to Mycroft, and Anthea gives her a measuring look.

“As well as can be expected,” she replies.

“Fair enough,” Eve says.  “He has our full support,” she adds.  Which is a silly thing to say; if MI-6 and Mycroft’s department weren’t in alignment, Eve certainly wouldn’t admit to it.  Anthea gives her a smile that shows her complete understanding.

When they step away from the bar with their freshened drinks, they drift to the edges of the group.  Without really planning it, they both end up tucked away in an alcove, comfortably silent as they watch the rest of the room.  Knots of people form and dissolve; they observe the body language of politicians who forget that their faces aren’t the only things visible to an attentive audience.

It’s pleasant to be able to watch without hiding the fact from the woman at her arm, without keeping up the pretence of sociability when she hasn’t anything real to say.  They handily dissuade some of the more enterprising junior agents from approaching with twinned, cool glances, and they occasionally nudge each other to bring especially interesting exchanges to each other’s attention.

There’s a small contingent of Americans clustered on chairs around a coffee table, looking a bit out of place.  Eve sees Bond making his way over, greeting Felix Leiter with a genuine smile before getting introduced to the others.  False introductions, surely, as Eve can rattle off nearly all their names without pause, and Bond’s had more experience working with American intelligence.

“Bond’s going to try to pull that lovely young captain,” Anthea observes.  Eve blinks.  He is, of course, but that’s rather more daring than she expected of him here.

“Can’t fault him for taste,” Eve says, eyeing the strapping blonde lad who seems half again Bond’s size in all directions but entirely out of his element.  “Want to wager on his success?” she says.

“He was crying in the back row, earlier,” Anthea says.  “He’ll be a breeze.”

“For us, maybe, but Bond’s a man, and there’s a general four feet away.”

“No faith in your agent?” Anthea says with a small sly smile.  “A wager it is, then.”

“Stakes?” Eve asks.

“Dinner,” offers Anthea, and her smile curls just a bit more.

Eve smiles back.  “You’re on.”

They tap their glasses together and settle in for the show.

The American leaves within the hour, and Bond exits precisely five minutes later, looking smug.  Eve lifts her glass to him when he glances her way, not feeling like she’s lost a thing.

***

Anthea offers to share her towncar, Eve accepts, and Anthea directs the driver to the Sofitel.  Seeing Eve’s raised eyebrows, Anthea laughs.  “I like the idea of sleeping inside an old bank,” she says with a shrug.  

They have drinks at the bar, and Anthea glances at the appetizer menu a bit before discarding it.

“Aren’t you hungry?” Eve says, toying with her glass.

Anthea looks up at her with a sly smile.  “In a bit,” she says.  “How did you meet Margaret?”

Eve shrugs.  “M, you mean?  I’m sure it’s in my file.”

“Yes, but I want to hear it.”

“I was training for the biathalon — winter, not summer, you understand.”  When Anthea nods, Eve continues, “I was good —  _really_ good — but getting some trouble with the public school competitors about my pedigree, how I didn’t have the money to go to uni, how this was all I had.”  Anthea frowns, and Eve waves it away.  “Oh, I was used to it; made beating them on a run so _satisfying_.  Then one day, this posh old lady walks in, sure to be a sponsor, and makes a beeline for me.  The looks on their faces...”  Eve smiles to herself.  “She took me aside and told me to quit.  Not quit shooting, but quit trying for the Olympics.  I... didn’t take it well.  Then she explained, in that way she had...”

_“You could very well win the gold, girl,” M had said.  “But that’s a fleeting glory.  What I’m offering is even greater than that.  We’ll pay for your education, both in the field and in school, if you don’t mind anonymity, and you’ll be paid handsomely for as long as you live.”  She’d fixed Eve with a gimlet eye.  “How long **that** will be would be up to you, and just how good you really are.”_

Eve laughs.  “With a challenge like that...”  She spreads her hands and shrugs again.  “I never looked back.”

Anthea smiles.  “I don’t blame you.”

Eve takes a sip of her drink.  “And you?”  First rule of encounters like this: don’t ask a question you won’t answer honestly yourself.

Anthea looks embarrassed.  “Party planning,” she admits.  “Don’t laugh.”

Eve manages it, but only because her curiosity outweighs her amusement.  “This I _have_ to hear.”

“I couldn’t find a job after uni — there are only so many places employing art historians, and academia wasn’t a good fit for me.  So I got a job as waitstaff for a caterer, worked my way up, and found myself coordinating events for some truly imposing public figures.”  Anthea laughs at herself.  “Well, they were imposing at first, until I realised that rich people are just _people_ , and quite often willing to handsomely reward a pretty girl who could make any embarrassment disappear from their high-profile events.  The number of drunken Lords I’ve carted off to town cars...”  She sighs dramatically, and Eve grins at the mental image.  “Margaret noticed me after I handled one of Sherlock’s little _scenes_ and hired me on to assist Mycroft.”  She sips her wine.  “After checking to make sure I wasn’t secretly blackmailing my high society clients and that I wasn’t gun-shy, of course.”

“Of course,” Eve agrees.  “She made me take comportment classes for twelve different cultures and quizzed me on regional variations every time I returned from missions, early on.”

Anthea nods vigorously.  “Same here.  Did she ever take you to Mayfair and show you how to cow the salespeople?”

Eve laughs.  “Oh my god, I wasn’t the only one?  She’d make me walk in first, and if they recognized her, she’d wave them off telling them she was there for me — her daughter — and stare them down if they looked even slightly dubious.  And then she’d leave me to flounder as they turned their attention to me!”

Anthea has a lovely, bright giggle.  “D’you think she puts the lads through those paces?” she asks.  

Eve shrugs.  “I’ve never asked.”

“Well, I mean...”  Anthea gestures vaguely.  “Mycroft wears bespoke, down to his umbrellas, and Sherlock runs —  _ran_  — around London’s underbelly in outfits that cost more than my car payments used to be.  So they got it by osmosis, but what about the triple-ohs?”  She looks faintly shocked at herself for letting the last bit slip.

Eve knows the slang.  “Triple-ohs” refers to the “double-oh orphans” for whom M — the _former_ M  _—_ always had a fondness.  Perhaps it was a remnant of her experiences after the War, helping Britain rebuild.  Rumor also had it that she fell in love with an American soldier who’d been an orphan, but those parts of her record were redacted, so Eve will never know for sure.

Eve doesn’t mind the slang, not really, but she won’t use it herself.  “They certainly know how to wear their suits, don’t they?” she says with a reassuring smile.  “But it’s different for us, I think.  Harder.  And she knew it from experience, didn’t she?”

Anthea drains the dregs of her glass, ice tinkling.  “She did, but she _used_ it, and the world was better for it.”

“I’ll drink to that,” Eve says, tapping her glass against Anthea’s empty one, draining it in turn.  “Are you hungry yet?  I’ve a bet to settle.”

“ _Famished_ ,” Anthea says and draws Eve from the bar, their hands still entwined, and leads her away from the restaurant.

***

Eve kisses her once in the hall, teasing and testing.  Anthea hums happily against Eve’s mouth and unlocks the door.  Eve follows her in, and when the door closes behind them, she catches Anthea ‘round the waist to pull her close, the curve of her belly nestled against the dip of Anthea’s spine.  Eve buries her nose in the strands of hair at the nape of Anthea’s neck, dragging her mouth over the soft skin there.

They toss their purses at the nearest table, twinned thumps that suggest more than just makeup and smartphones.  Eve wants to know what she carries, whether she prefers a folding drop-point or a switch.  Wanting to know how many IDs Anthea carries, in what names, and what the encryption is like on her mobile.  She presses her teeth into the curve of Anthea’s neck, wanting _everything_.

Anthea chuckles and leans back, kicking her shoes off.  She drops four inches, wiggling her stockinged toes in the carpet with a sigh, and Eve follows suit.  “Get the clasp?” Anthea asks, and Eve does her one better, getting both clasp and zip, pressing kisses along the line of Anthea’s spine.

“Lovely,” she says, stroking fingers over the silk of Anthea’s slip.  “Let’s see the rest, then.”

Anthea twists, shimmying out of dress and slip as one, letting them pool at her feet, and then steps back into Eve’s arms.  Eve scratches her nails over the black lace trim on Anthea’s bra, letting her gaze catalogue all the details: birthmark on Anthea’s collarbone that Eve swipes her tongue over, French bra, trim waist, faint silvery stretch marks at her hips, Italian garters and stockings, and...

“Ooh, _cheeky_ ,” she says, running the back of two fingers over the silk knickers that she knows aren’t more than three months old and come from a couturier in Tokyo.  Anthea hasn’t officially visited Japan in the last six months, so these must have been picked up on a clandestine trip.

“I was on vacation,” Anthea explains, and Eve has to kiss her for that even though she knows it’s a lie.  Perhaps _because_ it’s a lie.  “Your turn,” Anthea murmurs, hands already working on the side zip to Eve’s skirt.

Anthea’s mouth is fierce and clever and slick, tongue curling against Eve’s and darting away to be replaced by sharp teeth nipping at Eve’s lower lip.  Eve pulls her closer, one hand tangling in Anthea’s carefully-pinned hair and the other roving over her spine.

“Hmm,” Anthea says, pulling back even as she pushes Eve’s blouse from her shoulders.  Eve arches an eyebrow, knowing full well that her underthings are as revealing as Anthea’s — they were an online exclusive from her favorite designer, and Anthea can find out her home address now, with an easy bit of searching.  “I won’t tell if you won’t,” Anthea offers, her palm cupping one of Eve’s breasts, testing the weight, her thumb teasing the sensitive skin behind the silk.

Eve laughs.  “Deal,” she says, and Anthea gives her a fleeting, wicked smile before ducking her head to use her mouth on the nipple she’s teased to aching.

They discard their remaining clothing soon after, making their way to the bed.  There is a brief detour to a plush loveseat, where Anthea sits on the arm as she strips the stockings from Eve’s legs and presses her open mouth against Eve’s cunt for an infuriatingly brief moment.  But before Eve can tumble her back to the cushions and ride her clever tongue, Anthea’s standing again, pulling them back on course to the other room.

Eve gets a bit of her own back, though, pinning Anthea against the downy comforter and slipping her thigh between Anthea’s legs.  She regrets not freshening her lipstick on the elevator, because she wants to leave slick crimson prints against Anthea’s pale, freckled skin.  She settles for leaving a precise trail of bitemarks down Anthea’s abdomen while Anthea gasps and grinds up against her leg.

It’s not pretty; there’s no soft lighting and softer music, just a harsh strip of light coming through a gap in the curtains and their ragged gasps breaking the silence.  There’s a puckered, crooked scar on the inside of Anthea’s left thigh that makes Eve’s heart ache in sympathy, and Anthea says nothing of the bullet wound low on Eve’s stomach that clearly advertises the fact that she’ll never have children.

It’s not pretty, but it _is_ perfect, or as close as these moments can get.  Anthea bares her teeth and keens as Eve’s fingers stroke her inside and out, one leg pressed behind her hand to add leverage as Anthea begs for more.  Anthea makes good on her earlier tease by settling in between Eve’s legs and putting her tongue to good use until Eve’s thighs tremble and her voice is raw from shouting.

They catch their breath, fetch water from the bathroom tap, and start all over again.

***

Eve gets dressed to go in the early light of pre-dawn, while Anthea watches from the bed.  “I’m stealing your shoes,”  Eve tells her.

Anthea stretches, revealing tantalizing stretches of bare skin from beneath the totally disheveled linens.  Her hair is even more of a wreck.  Eve allows herself a small, self-satisfied moment to catalogue the marks she left on the other woman’s body — none of them will take longer than two days to heal, and only the edge of one might be visible past the kind of clothing Anthea is likely to wear to work.

“I’ll get them back from you sometime,” Anthea replies agreeably.  Eve tucks her stockings and garters inside her purse and steps into Anthea’s shoes — only half a size off, not too bad.  “After all, you still owe me dinner.”

“So I do,” Eve says with a smile, and leaves without looking back.

***

Eve wears Anthea’s Louboutins to work that day.  Mallory gives them a glance but doesn’t say anything, even though they’re slightly flashier than is _strictly_ appropriate for the office.  Bond comes in to pick up an assignment, looking like the proverbial cat (post-canary), but his smirk drops in a satisfying way when he sees Eve’s footwear.

She dodges his queries and sends him in to see Mallory, wishing the old M were there so that they could trade amused glances at Bond’s self-absorption.  

But there’s a new M, a new MI-6, and it’s the beginning of a new day.

Eve gets to work.

 

 

— END —

**Author's Note:**

> There is also a third fandom in this story as an easter egg. Did you catch it?


End file.
